45. 45
Killian
It’s hard to walk through the past, but for Harlow, I step into the blackness of my darkest memory.
The moment I walk through the door, something’s off. The room is small. The walls are bare and the furniture doesn’t match. Holes litter the drywall. It’s not a posh place, but houses like this are becoming our second home.
After snorting a few lines, I sit across from him in a gaming chair and recline.
I fling his ATM card at him like a boomerang, which he catches.
“Mom said don’t make any big purchases so Dad isn’t alerted.”
He smirks, but his energy is nothing like his texts. He seems too calm.
“What’s the matter?” I point at the cocaine. “Not feeling it tonight?”
“What are we doing? What’s the future?”
I cock my head, finding the question odd.
“The same plan as always. We’ll keep dancing. I got a call for another music video. They need backup dancers for some artists going on tour. We could go audition. Then we’ll settle down. The condo is great for now, but we’ll each get a wife. Have some kids and live next to each other—”
“No, I don’t want those things, and I don’t think you do either.”
I furrow my brow. “I do.”
Casually, he picks up the handgun and leans back into the cushion. He runs his finger along the top of the barrel, studying it with feigned interest.
“I am tired of being the life of the party, aren’t you? All we do is make everyone laugh.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“Yes, it is. We finish a music video or performance, and do what? Go sleep for three days because it wasn’t as fun as we hoped?”
“We get tired,” I mumble, but even I know that isn’t true.
“We’re depressed, Kill, and nobody gives a fuck. It’s always us that have to make everyone happy. People are leeches. They feed off our entertainment and leave us empty.”
“I like making people laugh,” I counter.
“Then you’re an idiot, because it’s killing you. What’s the fucking point?” He holds the gun in his limp wrist, waving it around. I watch it, tensing every time it points my way.
“Bro, I think you need to chill. Did you take downers or something?”
“Fuck, you’re in denial. Do you even love Frida? Or are you just with her because that’s what you’ve accepted? A boring, joyless life where we feel like shit secretly.”
I shrug. “It’s not all bad. I love her, and so do Mom and Dad. You’ll find a girl. The rest? That’s what the coke’s for.”
“We can’t be crackheads and raise a family.”
“We’re just having fun. I won’t always need it,” I remind him.
“I don’t think I want to be here anymore.”
I freeze.
The statement sends a jolt of electricity through my body.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He sits up, placing his elbows on his knees. He stares at the gun in his hands and sniffles. Tears etch down his face.
I’ve seen Asher cry. Just not in public. Someone could walk in and see him. So I do what I always do when something hurts. I try to make him laugh.
“Hey, bro, relax. I know chicks go into savior mode and give out pussy when they see a guy cry—”
“Funny,” he says dryly, then looks at me from under his brow. “I’m sorry, Kill. I don’t want to stay here just for you.”
I’m on my feet before I realize it. “Hey, Asher! Come on, man. Chill. You’re talking crazy.”
He racks the slide.
My heart stops.
I don’t move a muscle, afraid a sudden shift will end in disaster.
“Asher, put the gun down. I love you. Our whole family loves you. Fuck, everyone does.”
“I love you all, too, but I won’t feel like shit every goddamn day for other people.”
I balk, offended. “You’re my best friend. My twin. What the hell? You can’t leave me, can you?”
He stares directly into my eyes, a perfect reflection of myself.
“I fucked Frida.” He breaks into a sob.
“What?” I say, breathless.
“Sorry,” he replies, anguished.
It takes less than a second for him to jam the gun into his mouth and pull the trigger.
Ka-crack!
My ears scream. Asher folds forward, his head hanging between his knees. The wall behind him is splattered with a funnel of red. Chunks of brain tissue and tufts of black hair stick to the white plaster. A piece of flesh falls onto the backrest of the couch.
My gaze snaps to Asher. His rounded spine pulls on his shirt. The ceiling light casts onto the back of his head, clearly lighting the missing section of scalp and skull.
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
I’m not breathing. I can’t move. I can’t look away.
“Asher,” I whisper.
Silence.
I stare. I don’t know for how long. I don’t know what’s happening.
“Bro,” I say.
I finally step forward and kneel beside him. My kneecap presses onto the gun, the metal painful against a nerve. I pick up the weapon and set it on the table.
I don’t look at his head. Just his shoulder, pressing my palm against it, nudging him.
“You okay?”
I know he’s not. I know he’s...
Doctors can’t fix that.
Maybe they can.
I slip my hand under his chest and push him upright. His heavy body slumps into the cushion behind him. His eyes are open. A small amount of blood trickles from his gaping mouth.
It’s those eyes that horrify me, though. There’s nothing there. They don’t blink. They stare ahead, half-lidded and lifeless.
My throat closes. I clear it.
“Mom’s gonna... She’s gonna be mad at you,” I say, praying he replies.
Bile burns the back of my tongue.
The door opens.
“I thought I heard— Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” some woman screams.
More voices erupt in panic as people take turns peeking in and seeing the devastation.
What happened? Did you do this? Call the cops. Don’t call the cops.
I hear it all like background music, constant and meaningless. I just stare at my brother. I’ve spent my whole life beside him. The identical twin bond is practically supernatural. He’s literally half of me. That’s how we started, anyway.
How am I supposed to exist without him?
Half my brain just exploded onto a wall, never to be assembled again.
I vomit onto the floor.
Then I sit in it, leaning against the sofa with Asher’s leg pressed against my shoulder. I stare ahead at the empty gaming chair.
The fucker stared right at me.
Time hangs until police walk into the room with their guns pointed. I don’t move, my gaze still on that empty chair, wondering what he saw as he pulled the trigger.
Me, standing beside it, but apparently not saying the right things.
The police yell, ordering me to put my hands up. I don’t. They stalk forward. Move me. Handcuff me. Paramedics rush into the room as I’m dragged away.
Outside, blue and red lights flash in the darkness. I’m numb when they place me into the back of a patrol car. Eventually, they pull me out, and I am interviewed.
“We were using drugs. I don’t know what happened. He was playing around with the gun. I didn’t do it. Arrest me if you want to,” I tell the police. “He put it in his own mouth.”
“Suicide?”
I snarl at the cop. Asher didn’t mean it. There’s no way.
“He was fucking around,” I say more firmly.
The cop stares. I guess it was suicide, but I’m not saying it. Someone else can.
Mom rushes at me, frantic.
The handcuffs are undone from my wrists. I guess they believe me. At least for now.
The gurney is wheeled out. Asher has a sheet over him. Everyone — these fucking strangers — they stare at him as if it’s a parade.
“That’s my brother!” I shout across the chaos.
They have no right to look at him.
Mom screams as the paramedics wheel him to the ambulance, branding a mother’s pain into my fucking soul forever.
Her knees give out and she hangs on me. I support her.
I support Dad when he shows up and sobs into his hands.
I support my brothers when they cry and pity me for having witnessed it.
I hold Frida for a half-hour next to the cop car as I stare at the flashing lights.
Is she crying for me or him? I barely feel her body against mine. It’s not comfort.
I’m numb.
I fucked Frida.
I don’t ask her whether it’s true. I am unsure if I want to know.
Did he kill himself for her? Or because of the guilt? I guess he loved her. I’ll never know. I doubt she’d tell me. He could’ve fucked her because he was depressed. I have a thousand questions, and all he gave me was ‘sorry.’
The drug house dissolves. Ocean air fills my lungs. When I open my eyes, Harlow is still holding my hand.
“That’s what happened. Are we closer now?”
She better say yes, because for the first time, reaching out to Asher doesn’t feel like an option.